Sick, Disgusting, Wrong
by JustMakeLeftTurns
Summary: He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He hates himself. What sick, disgusting person falls in love with his brother? Warnings: language, drug abuse, prostitution, depression, implied eating disorders, onesided feelings of incest. Angsty!Iceland.


**A/N: Um, I just noticed that a lot of the things I write are angsty and stuff. And have depressed characters. *headdesk* I need to expand my writing more. People are going to think I'm depressed or something (I'm not, btw). Note to self: write something happy…or something not-depressing…*starts listing ideas***

**I dunno where this came from. I intend for it to be a oneshot (I have a short attention span. A multi-chapter fic does not bode well for me). But, well, you never know.**

**Warnings: language, drug abuse, prostitution, depression, implied eating disorders, onesided feelings of incest (does that one even make sense?)**

**Iceland = Erik**

**Norway = Lukas**

**Denmark = Matthias**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Or the song. *is sad***

Sick, Disgusting, Wrong

OoOoOo

_One, nothing wrong with me_

_Two, nothing wrong with me_

_Three, nothing wrong with me_

_Four, nothing wrong with me_

_One, something's got to give_

_Two, something's got to give_

_Three, something's got to give_

_Now!_

'_**Let the Bodies Hit the Floor,' Drowning Pool**_

OoOoOo

He does it every time. There's just no other way. And a small, sneaky voice in the back of his head says he likes it. That it gives him a false sense of familiarity, of belonging. He always ignores that voice. It didn't know anything. He didn't belong anywhere, not even in the arms of the people who groped him, touched him, fucked him, made him fuck them. They paid him. That's all he was there for. He'd get the money and leave. It was rare when the same person found him again, specifically.

Right then, he was mewling, bucking, making the faces he knew people enjoyed. His hands wandered instinctively, knowing exactly where to tease, where to pause. He parted his lips, stared hazily to the side with half-lidded eyes. But never at the person's face. He liked to pretend it was the one he loved, who would never – _could_ never – love him back. Sometimes he got so caught up in his own fantasy that his acting and self-hatred would fade; he'd be in his mind, think that he was with _him_.

Afterwards, though, it was always the same. He'd get dressed. He'd get paid. He'd leave. At home, he'd cry, although he never knew why. He was fine. There was no reason to cry. The only thing that was excusable for the tears was _who_ he loved. Of all the people, it had to be his brother. His dumb, oblivious, older brother. Norway. Lukas.

He'd stay in a corner, pretend he wasn't crying. His thoughts for the man he was biologically related to made him feel sick. It was disgusting. _He _was disgusting. His own brother was the one he thought of while touching himself – or, more often, while doing his 'job.' He would never tell Lukas. The older man was already sought after by Denmark. They would probably get together eventually. Not to mention the hatred that Lukas would have for him, Iceland. Erik.

He shuddered. He wouldn't be able to live if Lukas hated him, good reason or not. So he had taken matters into his own hands. He had cut off all ties to the other Nordic countries. He would allow no temptation to talk to Lukas or try to get a message passed on to him. He shut himself in his house, leaving only to do his 'job.' And get his fix.

But, really, it wasn't as bad as it sounded. He was fine. Really.

Even though he hadn't had any contact with the men he'd called family – to himself, of course, for they'd never let him live it down if he'd told them – he was perfectly fine. And happy. The tears were for his self-hatred. He shouldn't love Lukas. What sick, twisted person loves his own brother in that way?

He realizes that his 'job' is finished. He dresses, takes the money handed to him. Leaves. Heads home. Ignores the tears on his cheeks – there's no reason for them. He's fine. It's just the cold. Really.

He enters his house, the large, empty house. He places the bills with the others in his dresser. He doesn't need that much. He barely eats and he only needs to pay his dealer once a month. He has more than enough money for both. So why does he keep going back? Why does he let people do what they wanted to him if he didn't need the money? He ignores the voice in the back of his head. He doesn't like it. He only wants Lukas, the one man in the world that he can't have.

His house is a mess. He lives alone; even his puffin left him. He didn't know when the bird left. He had never paid him any attention since isolating himself. But he's fine. He's always been alone.

He hears the phone ring. Instead of answering it, he heads towards his stash. He needs a fix and he needs it now. He was thinking too much. Thinking wasn't good. His thoughts always turned to Lukas and he wanted them to _go away_. He heard the voicemail of whoever was calling, and nearly fainted in shock. It was Norway. Lukas. How had he gotten his, Erik's, phone number? He'd changed it twice and told only a few the new number. Against his own thoughts to _leaveleaveleave don't listen_ he looks to the phone, as if Lukas will appear out of the phone. He listens to the voicemail, lets his body enjoy the sound of Lukas' voice.

"Iceland, where are you?" Iceland, always Iceland, never Erik.

"Please, pick up." He sounds upset, he thinks distantly. He sounds almost a bit panicky. But that wasn't Lukas. He must be mistaken.

"Iceland, I know this is your number. Please, Ice, we're all worried about you." His hands clench into fists. Stop it, you _know_ why you left. Don't let it fall apart.

"You weren't at the last World Conference. And no one knows where you are." That's how it needs to be, he reminds himself. Against his will, his hand picks up the phone and brings it to his ear. _Nonono! This will ruin _–

"Lukas?" His voice isn't shaky. It really isn't.

"Ice?" There's relief in his voice. He starts to smile, but then realizes – he's _talking_ to _Lukas_.

"I-I'm fine. Really. Just … Leave me alone." He didn't mean to stutter. But his voice was steady. See? He's fine.

"Iceland, what's wrong? Why'd you isolate yourself? No one's seen you in months!" He takes a breath. He ignores the tears streaming down his cheeks. His hand grips the phone tighter. He needs to change the number again. He needs to stay away from everyone. It's for the best.

"There's nothing wrong with me." He hangs up. Unplugs the phone. Walks over to his stash and adds another mark to the inside of his arm.

He lasts three days before he feels the need to be _wanted_. He goes to a regular, someone who knows what he likes, someone who he knows what the other likes. Simple, no thinking needed. Just pleasure. Just money. Just a job.

On the way there, he feels eyes watching him. Nothing new. People always watched him, glared at him, more like. He knew that they knew what he did. He was certainly dressed appropriately. Still, he took a glance behind him. As he thought, nothing unusual. He ignored the disapproving stares of his people – _I'm letting them down but I need this, I need the money, I need to feel needed_ – and made it to the meeting place.

It was a cheap motel room, nothing special. Perfect for the job. He entered the room, kicked the door shut, took off his shirt and shoes, let the other man feel him up, force him onto the bed. He allowed himself to savor the kiss – _pretend it's him, you know you do _– and wrapped a leg around the other's waist. He let the man take control – he was in no mood to do anything except mewl and pant and moan.

The man was suddenly gone, ripped from him. He stared up into familiar eyes. Eyes that shouldn't be there. Disappointed, worried eyes. Eyes that should never show those emotions, never towards him. He doesn't deserve it.

"Lukas." His mouth moves before he can prevent himself from talking. He looks past his brother, sees another familiar face. He finds it difficult to swallow. "Matthias."

Without a word, Lukas gives him his shirt and puts on his shoes. He puts his shirt on, heart pounding incessantly. He feels Matthias' stare on him. He wants to tell them he's fine, because he is. He should be angry at them – they just cost him money. But instead, he feels numb. Empty. He doesn't know what to feel.

Lukas takes him by the hand – _stop, it's not like that, you're so sicksicksick_ – and leads him away from the motel. Matthias is behind him, trapping him. Between the two, he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. Did he want to?

He leads them to his house, giving up. He's ashamed when they see the mess, see how much he just _didn't care_. Matthias leaves to the other room. It's just him and Lukas. His heart beats against his chest. _Stopstopstop, you're disgusting, leave while you can…_

"What…" Lukas takes a shuddering breath. He tries to glare at him, Erik, but the almost scared look in his eye ruins the effect. He doesn't understand why his older brother is scared. Why would he be scared?

Apparently, he'd voiced the last two thoughts aloud. Lukas is staring at him, as if he can't believe the silver-haired man was his brother. Erik sits on the worn-out sofa with the stains on it. Lukas sits beside him. Erik resists the urge to kiss him – that would ruin everything he'd worked for.

"I'm scared for you," Lukas admits. Erik doesn't care. He's fine. "What you did back there – That wasn't the first time, was it?" Erik doesn't answer. Lukas takes this as an affirmative. "I want to know why. Why would you do this to yourself? What made you feel like you had to sell yourself?"

He swallows, looks away. He can't tell him, won't tell him. He's so sick and wrong and disgusting and he just wants it to go away. He's silent, waiting for the man to leave. A part of him wants Lukas and Matthias to leave. Another part of him, the _sicksicksick_ part of him wants Lukas to stay. His hands form fists on his lap. He refuses to speak. He doesn't even know if Lukas is speaking. He doesn't know where Matthias is. He doesn't care. He really doesn't.

Lukas pushes him roughly. Surprised, he falls back, facing his brother. Lukas is glaring at him, his eyes angry. But those other emotions – worry and fear and disappointment – are all there too. He hates himself even more. Lukas should never have to feel those emotions. Especially towards him. He ruins everything. He ruined everything the minute he picked up that phone. It was probably how they found him. Someone had probably traced the call somehow. How wasn't important. What was important that they leave, so he can run and hide and never see them again.

"What is wrong with you?" Lukas snaps. His eyes narrow. Erik looks away. Nothing is wrong with him. He just doesn't like how he made Lukas – his dear, dear Lukas – sound like that towards him. Feel so angry and disappointed towards him.

Lukas takes a shuddering breath. "Why? Just tell me, why?" He's blinking back tears. Erik wishes he wasn't. Lukas should never cry. He's never seen his big brother cry. It would be a shame if he cried – and because of him. He shuts his eyes tight. His fault. All his fault. Why can't they leave?

"Just tell me, Iceland!" Lukas shakes him. He refuses to open his eyes. He's scared of what he'd see. Lukas has never acted this way before. He's usually so calm. He never shows this much emotion.

"Iceland!"

Erik smirks halfheartedly. He opens his eyes, stares at his brother. "It's always Iceland with you." His voice isn't shaking. Really. "Always, always Iceland…" His voice didn't break there. Even if it did, it was because he has a sore throat. Really.

Lukas opens his mouth to respond, but Matthias is swearing really loudly. He wonders what's wrong, doesn't really care but still wants to know. Matthias is shouting in Danish now, but he doesn't know the language. He sits up, about to head to where the man is, when Matthias strides into the room. He throws something onto the ground. Both Lukas and Erik look at the objects.

"What the hell is this?" Matthias is beyond pissed off. He hasn't seen the older man like this since the Kalmar Union. But he doesn't think for long on the subject. His eyes are glued to the objects on his floor.

"Iceland…" Lukas is horrified, even more so than before. He can hear it in the man's voice. He hates hearing it, he feels a pang in his chest. His brother is ashamed of him. He turns his head away, closes his eyes. He's not crying, by the way. He has allergies. Really.

"You're just a drug-abusing whore!" Denmark screams at him, starts ranting in Danish. He doesn't care. Really. He's used to hearing this kind of thing from people on the streets, the people his 'job' led him to. It doesn't hurt at all that his sort-of-but-not-really older brother figure is yelling at him, or that his biological brother is staring at him in shock and horror. Really.

He hears Lukas get up. He hears the objects being picked up. He opens his eyes, turns sharply towards the noise. Lukas is taking his heroin, his needles. He leaps up, reaches for them, but Lukas and Denmark are faster. Lukas holds them away from him. Denmark holds him back. He thrashes wildly, screams in his native tongue, angry and scared and lost.

He is dragged to their car, him struggling all the way. He refuses to just give up. He screams and yells, but no one is going to help the neighborhood whore. Denmark shoves him into the backseat. He tries to leave, but the older man blocks him. He only settles down when Denmark threatens to knock him out. Denmark and Lukas sit in the front, Denmark at the wheel.

He's silent for the longest time, glaring out the window. He almost makes a scene at the airport but Denmark has a strong grip on him and Lukas is watching him closely. The plane ride is awkward and his will is gone. He sleeps and dreams and cries and pretends that Denmark and Lukas aren't disappointed in him.

They've brought him to one of Lukas' houses in Norway. They show him his room, tell him that he needs help and that they're going to help him. He still refuses to speak. He doesn't need to be fixed. He's fine. Really. They made it worse by separating him from his high, when he wouldn't think those _horrible disgusting sick _thoughts. They fed him three meals a day. So much food _stop too much too much I'm disgusting no more I'm sicksicksick_. He doesn't deserve to eat this much. But he can't get away with not eating like he could before. So he turned to throwing up whenever he could. He's fine, though. Really.

Eventually Denmark and Lukas trust him enough and he starts to sneak out, find new people who would grope him, fuck him, make him fuck them. He got money, found a new dealer, got his fix, made sure he was down from his high before showing himself to Denmark and Lukas. He likes these people better. They speak a tongue he's not familiar with. Anything they say sounds sweet and silky and the language rolls off the tongue. If he closes his eyes he can pretend it's Lukas. _You're so sick, you pretend it's him, always, always him._

Denmark leaves for a week for some government meeting. Erik finds it harder to be in the same house as Lukas. He refuses to speak to him, to look at him, to sit beside him. He doesn't want to see the look in his brother's eyes – that he's getting better, that he's almost back to normal because he's _not_ and he feels bad for lying to him but it's _better this way_.

He thinks Lukas is asleep one night, so he rolls up his sleeve and inserts the needle. He'll be off the high by morning, but for the night, he won't think of his brother like that, he'll be some random druggie on the street. He sits in the corner, hunched over himself, feels the high. Forgets why he's there, where 'there' even is. He's floating, and floating, and floating.

But he forgot to lock the door, so he shouldn't have been surprised – although it wasn't a very strong emotion, for he was just floating, and floating, and floating – when Lukas entered the room. Lukas looks horrified, then worried, then downright angry. He takes away the needle and the heroin in front of Erik. He reaches weakly for the objects, but Lukas keeps them away.

"How long have you been doing this behind our backs?" He ignores the annoying and loud and real voice. He's just floating, and floating, and floating. He leans back against the wall, eyes half-closed, enjoying the high. But no one has ever talked to him while he's high before, and it starts to fade.

Lukas is kneeling in front of him, concern visible in his eyes. He should never feel those emotions, not for him, Erik, who is so _sick_ and _disgusting_. He finds himself unable to look away from his brother. He's _so close_ and he wants to do something, lean closer for a kiss or rip off the older man's shirt. He realizes what he's thinking and looks to the side.

"What is wrong with you?" Lukas snaps. He hears anger and fear and disappointment and concern and his brother shouldn't feel that way about him.

He lets a chuckle loose from his lips. He turns his head back to his brother. The tears are from the dust in the room. Really.

"Everything is wrong with me," he says hoarsely. He licks his lips, resists leaning closer to the man he loves – so wrong, wrong, wrong. Lukas furrows his brow, lifts a hand as if going to wipe away the tears, sets the hand back down.

"What do you mean?" is what he says. Erik chuckles humorlessly. He's still floating, floating, floating.

"I'm in love with my brother." He speaks before he can stop himself. He does nothing as Lukas freezes, stands, leaves. The tears aren't falling faster. It's an illusion. Really. He vaguely notices that Lukas took the drugs with him, but it's okay – he has more.

Denmark is back a few days later. He hears Denmark and Lukas talking in hushed whispers. They glance in his direction a few times. He pretends he doesn't notice. He takes the time to hide as much food as he can in his napkin. They gave him too big of a portion, but he doesn't want to tell them that. He also doesn't want to tell them that he has a stomachache, and that's why he threw up after eating.

Neither of the other two speak to him for a few days. He's okay with that. Really. It's what he wanted in the first place, isn't it? And it's perfectly fine that he is being watched constantly to the point where he can't escape to the bathroom after meals or exit the house alone. He still has his stash – the hidden one, the one Denmark and Lukas didn't know about. Now, though, he waits until he's positive they're asleep. And then he locks the door. And the window. He wants to be sure he can feel wanted by something.

They took away the people. They took away the bathroom after meals. But he still has the needle. And even though they're watching his eating habits, he still manages to hide some of the food. He's had practice.

He doesn't deserve any of the attention they're giving him. He doesn't understand why they care. He was so sick, so disgusting, so wrong. Why hadn't they kicked him out yet?

He feels the familiar itch. He tries to ignore it. He's in the middle of eating, or rather, trying to get away with eating as little as possible. His hands are shaking. He tries to hide it. Lukas and Matthias don't notice. He can't take it anymore. He leaps up from the table, runs to his room. He hears them shout after him – the first time they speak to him when it's not about his eating habits. He closes the door, locks it. He scrambles through his room, tossing everything aside. He can't remember where his stash is – he's drawing a blank it's that bad. He finds it, sits right where he is, sticks the needle in his arm without checking to see how much heroin he's using.

It's familiar, it's wanted. It's control. It erases his _sick disgusting_ thoughts. It leaves him floating, and floating, and floating. He hears shouting from the other side of the door. He ignores them. Suddenly, he's on his back, convulsing. He doesn't know what's happening, can't think, can't feel – _no sick thoughts_. He doesn't like the convulsing, but he's not thinking about Lukas _like that_ so he doesn't care. Really. He's not scared at all. Really. Not even when he feels like he's going to pass out.

He doesn't notice when Lukas and Matthias break down the door and find him. They already think he's disgusting and wrong, wrong, wrong. He doesn't care if they see him like this. Really. He doesn't care that Matthias is cussing and calling someone on his cell phone. He doesn't care that Lukas has moved him onto his side and is talking to him – even though he doesn't hear what is being said. He doesn't care that this is the first time they've seemed worried about him for the past two weeks. Really.

The next thing he knows, he's in a white room with white sheets and a white pillow and he's in a hospital gown. He ignores the nurses, refuses to speak to them. His hands grab the sheets when Lukas and Matthias enter the room and the nurses leave. Matthias is cussing him out, although his eyes show his concern. Concern that should never be shown towards him, the one who is _sick disgusting wrong_. Lukas sits on the bed, emotions hidden behind his usual mask. But it's okay. Really. He's used to Lukas hiding things from him. He's used to Matthias yelling.

Eventually, Denmark leaves. It's just him and Lukas. The room is silent for a long time. It's okay, though. It's always silent between the two brothers. Really. It's normal. He wishes Lukas would say something, and at the same time wishes he would leave. He keeps looking at the man's lips, and he tries to hard not to. His eyes ignore his inner pleading to look away.

Lukas finally speaks, but it's not the words he wants to hear. It's the words he knew that his brother was going to say.

"What you feel for me … is wrong." He, Erik, doesn't speak. He doesn't want his voice to break – but not from feeling upset; he has a sore throat and needs a drink. Really.

"We can be brothers. But that's all we can ever be." He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't react when Lukas stands.

"Please," the older man whispers. "Don't ever do that again." He knows that Lukas has changed the subject on purpose. He doesn't care. Really. And it's perfectly okay when Lukas leaves.

He's not crying. The window is open and pollen is flying into his eyes. Really. And he's not going to overdose again. It was an accident. But he made no promises about anything else. He needs to be wanted by something, by someone. It's what he wants.

Really.

OoOoOo

**Pfft what did I just write…**

**For some reason I love NorIce. They need more love. Even when it's onesided and causes lots of angsty!Iceland.**

**I don't know the effects of taking heroin, so … sorry if that's wrong.**

**Oh, and I have no idea how many times a year a World Conference is held. I've always thought it was once a year…Feel free to correct me so I'll know next time!**


End file.
